


Oizys

by ClementineStarling



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Burnplay, Dark, Humiliation, M/M, Masochism, Nazisploitation, Sensory Deprivation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 23:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10627743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: Joe is imprisoned after his father's plot has been uncovered.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For translations move your cursor over the dialogue.

Joe tries to concentrate on breathing. Steady. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Not too slow. Not too fast. One breath of air after another. Be calm. Be stoic. Don't give in to the fear.

It's not working.

They put a bag over his head before they shoved him into the car. That must have been hours ago and the hood is getting more stifling with every passing minute. It's so tight it sticks to his face. The rough hemp has grown damp over Joe's mouth and nose, it feels as if it's slowly smothering him. It doesn't help that the fabric is thick enough to muffle every sound and block out every bit of light. It's claustrophobic in the dark, like a first taste of being buried, and Joe thinks that's what going mad must feel like. He attempts his best not to panic but he knows he's fighting a losing battle.

He has no idea where he is. He couldn't even have said how long they had been driving before they arrived here. Maybe they threw him into a cell in the Gestapo headquarters on Prinz-Albrecht-Straße, maybe they took him straight to Plötzensee to have him executed. Joe curses Nicole for telling him about these places during their little sightseeing tours. It only seemed like a scary tale back then, when they believed themselves firmly on the right side of the regime, just some good fun with a dash of horror that made pleasant shivers run down his spine. Now the knowledge adds an edge to his fear.

He thought he might be on his way to the guillotine when they pulled him out of the car and pushed him down a series of seemingly endless hallways. The heavy steps of their boots were dampened by the bag over his head, but there is something about these situations that manages to penetrate every blindfold or hood. Gestapo, SD, when they come to get you, you know what kind of places you end up in. He could see the building before his mind's eye, vividly, the chalk-white walls, the thoroughly polished floor, the many, many doors. A sense of terror lay over the place, stale as the smell of old paper. 

They didn't take him to his execution though, there was no firing squad waiting for him, no guillotine; they didn't take him to an interrogation room either. Their destination was a solitary cell where they stripped him down to his underwear. Two men. Taciturn. Efficient. Just as you would expect them to be. It was disturbing to be undressed by complete strangers, even more so as Joe wasn't able to see them, while they in turn could examine him all they wanted. His undershirt and briefs left little to the imagination.

“Das ist also Heusmanns Sohn,” one of them said while he bent Joe's arms behind his back to close the handcuffs around his wrists. “So ein hübscher Junge, schade drum.” A hand ran over the length of his side to his hip, then to his arse, where it lingered for a moment, squeezing experimentally. It was a touch that was neither necessary nor appropriate but Joe didn't dare to protest. 

“Jetzt sei mal nicht so voreilig. Kann gut sein, dass er dem Tod noch von der Schippe springt,” the other one said. “Und auch wenn nicht, der wird doch sicher noch verhört, vielleicht kommste da ja zum Schuss.”

“Dein Wort in Himmlers Ohr,” the first one said with a low chuckle.

The hand disappeared from Joe's butt, instead the man behind him said gruffly, “Runter!”, reinforcing the command with a shove in the back. Obediently Joe slumped down to his knees. 

He had difficulties understanding what exactly they had said, his German is still far from perfect, but he had no trouble catching the _meaning_ of their words. Clearly they were hoping for him to be fair game soon. Being subject to enhanced interrogation probably implied they could do with him whatever they pleased. The thought made his stomach lurch. 

It's been pretty much the only thing he's been able to think about since the door fell shut behind them, leaving him to the horrors of his imagination. He's been listening for footsteps, for the chinking of keys, the sound of the door being unlocked, for hours he's been waiting for someone to come get him for questioning. But no one came. He's just alone in this room. Alone in the darkness.

Perhaps he's not been here for as long as he thinks.

His body has started to slip from his control though. It's unnerving not to be able to use his hands. His arms are getting numb and he keeps tugging at the handcuffs, not consciously but persistently. The skin is already puffy around the metal, soon it will be rubbed sore. Joe _knows_ this but he simply can't stop himself.

His heart is racing, pounding in his chest like mad. He can feel his pulse in his finger tips, hear it like thunder in his ears. His chest is too tight. He realises he's breathing too fast again. He's light-headed, the itchy fabric of the bag plastered to his face. 

When his father told him it wasn't safe to stay, why didn't he listen?  
Because, and that's the honest truth, he couldn't imagine the danger he was in.  
Now he can, and it makes his skin crawl. 

He can still sense the hand of the SS man on his arse, the pressure of greedy fingers through the thin fabric of his underwear. He swallows hard. The more he tries to suppress them, the more the mental pictures are flooding his mind, fantasies with an unsettling amount of detail. A large calloused hand on his neck. Being bent over a table. A boot kicking his legs apart. Someone laughing. The sounds of a belt being unbuckled. The rustle of fabric. The twist of panic in his belly. 

In his imagination, it's more than one interrogator, it's a group of men. He wouldn't be able to see them, perhaps not even recognise their voices properly. The hood is thick, almost impenetrable, like a helmet. He should be thankful for that. They wouldn't see his grimace of pain or the tears rolling from his eyes. It would muffle his low groans and pants, too. He must think of it as an armour.

He imagines someone pulling his briefs down, maybe even tearing his undershirt off. Of course they would want to see him completely naked, not just metaphorically but quite literally. All the soft, vulnerable skin, exposed for their pleasure, offered up for whatever torture they chose to inflict on him. 

Probably they would make comments about him, appreciative, humiliating, obscene, whatever comes into their mind. Things men say about bodies they want to fuck. Again, far away, behind the thick curtain around his head, a new reel starts, the next act of the drama begins: the clicking of a lighter or the soft hiss of a match indicates someone is lighting a cigarette. Perhaps because they feel like smoking, perhaps not.

Rape doesn't have to be limited to a bunch of guys shoving their cocks up his arse, Joe realises. How unimaginative of him to assume such a lack in creativity. There are so many ways to hurt him. Not merely with a cigarette but _also_ with a cigarette. Every inch of him can be used to put one out, and not just one – two, three, a whole pack, as many as they like. A pack makes a lot of burns, small, circular, blistering holes. They would go for the most sensitive spots, where the skin is tender, wisp-thin, places that are begging for stimulation, where normally he _craves_ to be touched. His cock gives a little twitch at the idea, and Joe is horrified to find that he's getting aroused by this nightmare scenario his mind has come up with.

He thinks of someone standing behind him – there was someone, right? Earlier in his fantasy? That someone who kicked his legs apart and had already unbuckled his belt? He's getting confused from the lack of oxygen. Perhaps that someone would poke and prod at his balls, laughing as they pulled up against his body, as if trying to shrink out of sight. There is nothing Joe could do to protect himself. If that man felt like it, he could take his cigarette and bring it down on the crinkled skin of his hole, the softness of his sac, the silky length of his cock, further up, on the exposed pink tip...

Joe gags. 

His overly active imagination provides him with the smell of burnt skin, the flash of excruciating pain, the raw burning sensation that comes after. He's still aroused, even more so by the fantasy perhaps, his lower body tense, throbbing while at the same time he's straining against the handcuffs, trying to free himself. 

What would they think if they found him like that? A right mess, his cock stiff, leaking, a wet spot in his flimsy white cotton briefs. He squirms, tries to curl up best he can, folding into himself. He crawled into a corner, huddled up against the smooth cold wall. It's reassuringly solid against his naked shoulder, steady, real. At least these stones aren't just a figment of his imagination. He's never been more thankful for a bit of concrete.

There must be more calming thoughts, hidden somewhere in his mind, hidden away in corners, just like he himself. They flinch back as he reaches out for them though, scatter away like woodlice when you turn around a stone. Perhaps some part of him believes he deserves this? Being alone in the dark, abandoned and afraid, his only company a fantasy of rape and torture his imagination keeps returning to, again and again, like a broken record. No matter how often he tries to think of Rita and Buddy, the smell of fresh bread, that sunrise in Canon City, the safety of his own bed, he always comes back to being bent over a table in an interrogation room. 

Maybe John would be there too, he thinks. John would look out for him, wouldn't he? See to it that no serious harm came to him.

But what if it was John who stood behind him, opening his uniform trousers? 

Suddenly all those featureless, nameless Germans standing in line to fuck him have familiar faces, there's Obergruppenführer Smith, Sturmbannführer Raeder, Sturmbannführer Klemm, even Hauptsturmführer Connolly (the part of Joes brain providing the pictures apparently doesn't care that Connolly is dead). It will be good, comforting even, to imagine them. Joe is convinced that whatever his captors choose to do to him, it will help a little to think of these fine upstanding members of the American SS. Mostly it will help to think of John of course. There is little Joe can imagine he wouldn't allow John to do to him anyway, beg for it even. 

He imagines John asking him a question, in German but softened by his American accent, the deep raspy voice a caress on his raw skin, and he knows he would melt in an instant, reveal everything, betray anyone. Not that he actually could, he's not been in on his father's plot, but maybe that doesn't matter now?

In the darkness of his hood Joe is dreaming, torn between nightmare and erotic fantasy.

More time passes and at last someone is coming. Joe almost misses it in his haze, the approaching footsteps, the sound of the key in the lock, the door swinging open. The alarming footfalls of heavy boots. He fights the impulse to try and crawl further into his corner. He also fights the impulse to jump to his feet.

His visitor doesn't give him much of a choice anyway. Joe is pulled up by the scruff of the neck, roughly, and pushed a few steps through the room. He's so weak, his knees are buckling. His limbs are prickling as the circulation returns to them, pins and needles. He feels dizzy, disoriented. The air is chilly, particularly where the sheer fabric of his underwear is sticking to his skin, damp with cold sweat and--

Joe can't bear the thought to be seen like this, as the filthy little thing he truly is, wanton, depraved and pathetic. He can imagine their voices, the gossip in the pubs and salons, every soldier, ever saleswoman, every party member: Martin Heusmann's only son, a worthless whore, who would have thought? 

The humiliation stings and burns like cigarette glow, makes him ache with a longing to be touched, to be torn apart. They are wolves and he is their prey and perhaps that's how it's meant to be. Whatever they will do to him, he deserves it. All the pretence of being the next king's firstborn, a prince of the Reich, the arrogance of believing it himself, who did he think he would fool with this act? Why did he play along, when he should have known what he really is, underneath the pretty surface. Damaged goods, rotten and spoiled, such a sorry excuse for a human being. Maybe he's not even that anymore, now that he comes to think of it, not a person but merely a toy for the entertainment of his captors. It's not them who are faceless, it's him. To them he's just a body with a bag over its head to do with as they see fit.

The thought makes him nauseous. It makes him flustered and desperate, too. He really is such a pitiful creature.

“Bitte,” he whispers. _Please._ But he's not even sure what he's begging for.

~


End file.
